To Wash Away One's Mistakes
by Wyz.the.Great
Summary: Apply. Lather. Rinse. He could still feel warm, sticky liquid on his palms, between his fingers, regardless. (entry for Poirot Café's Themed Writing Contest #37: "soap"; Oneshot)


**Word Count: 1,586**

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He sighed, looking at the child's face that always looked back at him from a reflection—a face that should have been a teenager's, would have been, if not for poisons that shrunk people. And this stupid small form… he couldn't _do_ anything. Not on his own, anyway. Until a permanent antidote was found, his limitations would be forever based on the professor's gadgets.

Dark eyebrows turned down as he glared.

The reflection glared back.

With a huff, he directed his glare at chubby, far-too-young hands under the stream of running water. Hands that reached for the soap, and worked it into a lather more because of habit than anything deliberate.

Somewhere in his mind, he noted that the soap was rose-scented, undoubtedly Haibara's doing since Professor Agasa would usually choose a more generic scent… but he was more focused on the thoughts that wandered toward his first source of guilt.

Akemi Miyano didn't have to die. She didn't have to bleed out amongst the warehouses, or be shot by Gin. She didn't have to take that assignment which would ultimately lead to her demise, which would obviously be followed by a "disposal" because of the terms she agreed to.

The Black Organization would never release Sherry unless that release involved her murder.

But Akemi Miyano did take that assignment, with everything else following along after. And he was a great detective, a meitantei… he should have been able to figure it out sooner. He should have been able to prevent her death. He wasn't the one who pulled the trigger, but he might as well have.

Her blood would forever stain his hands.

Rinse.

Apply.

Lather.

He could still feel warm, sticky liquid on his palms, between his fingers, regardless.

But Akemi Miyano wasn't the only one to die because of him, because of his mistakes.

Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_ was always going to be a reminder of Seji Asoh. That blasted song was the key to that case on Tsukikage Island.

He _knew_ the typical notes for the song. He knew the notes that were off, and the message they left behind… But he was supposed to be the Great Detective of the East, the Heisei Holmes—he was supposed to predict a culprit's actions, and take proper counter measures.

So how could he let Seji Asoh escape police custody? How could he let the man lock himself in the community center and set it on fire?

How could he let Seji Asoh die?

That final coded message would always haunt him.

"Thank you, little detective"

It had been played repeatedly until there was a loud crash and an explosion of sparks that rose into the dark, night sky. The lack of music notes afterwards was more than enough to know what had happened.

He clenched his teeth with enough ferocity to make his jaw sore.

Why was he thanked? Sure, he figured out truth of Keiji Asoh's murder, and Seji Asoh's murder spree, but he had failed as a detective.

A detective who cornered a culprit and drove them to suicide was no different than a murderer.

He shook his head in remorse, shoving his hands under the faucet to get them rinsed before shutting off the water.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Residual droplets continued to fall.

…Fall like tears.

How many times have people cried because his mistakes? How many times had he caused anguish?

Sometimes, when Ran didn't think anyone was looking, she would frown, her eyebrows furrowed in worry as she would glance at the sea cucumber charm attached to her phone. She would always turn away with a sigh, and carry on, pretending that nothing happened.

As Conan, he could only watch. He couldn't let her know that he was a lot closer than she thought, or that he was fine… at least as fine as he could be with being shrunk to the size of a 6-year-old.

And Haibara… Haibara hardly showed emotion, but the aftermath of that one case, where she collapsed, crying, asking why he couldn't save her sister… that memory kept him awake at night.

Did she still blame him? Did she still think that he failed? There were times where he couldn't bear to look her in the eye. Her sister's blood would always remain on his hands, after all.

He reached for the towel, and absently dried his hands.

Was it possible for the professor to build a time machine? Something to take him back and undo his mistakes? He was confident that Professor Agasa, of all people, was quite capable of such a feat. But what if the professor _did_ invent such a thing? Would he still be the same person? Would he still learn the same lessons as Shinichi Kudo, instead of Conan Edogawa?

Would he be willing to take the risk?

He stopped, and dropped his hands to his side. His eyes, staring blankly at the sink, slowly rose back up to his reflection. To the child-like face that was yet another reminder of another mistake.

He had been too cocky, too confident, too arrogant. If he had a better sense of caution, his reflection would still be that of a teenager.

He had recognized that Gin's eyes were that of a cold-blooded-killer, knew that the man wouldn't hesitate at committing another murder. He'd seen that before. But he hadn't dealt with crime syndicates. Hadn't dealt with criminals that were cunning or resourceful enough to keep the FBI and PSB on their toes.

His haste in attempting to gather evidence, which had no consequence before, had suddenly become a dangerous faux pas.

He was lucky to still be alive, even with his current state.

But how long would he have lasted? Probably not for long. He would have run into another situation at some point, and there wouldn't have been some rare side effect to save him. It was a fluke that Gin and Vodka had used the apoptoxin in the first place, since a gun would have attracted too much attention with the police still around from the roller coaster decapitation case.

It was a fluke that Haibara hadn't reported that he shrunk. That she had switched his status from "unknown" to "dead" before she had fled the Black Organization.

So the time machine was probably a bad idea, if it was even an option in the first place. All he could do was move forward, and not let the pain of others be for naught.

Akemi Miyano's last words were a warning, a lead, that took him one step closer to taking down the Black Organization.

The guilt of Seji Asoh's death was what drove him to make sure that no other culprit would take their life.

Ran's tears urged him to try even harder to find more about the Black Organization, even when others had been trying to do the same for several years prior.

Haibara's anguish was what had ultimately led her to him, and as a former member of the Black Organization, as the creator of the APTX4869, she had helped him far more than he could have asked.

He was _not_ going to let their pain, their suffering, be in vain.

He reached for the voice-changing bow tie, and held it in front of his mouth, changing the settings to replicate his own voice. The voice he should have had. The voice that he missed hearing the most, through this entire ordeal.

"I am Shinichi Kudo. I _will_ take down the Black Organization. I _will_ somehow get a permanent antidote. I will _not_ let this poison, this situation control my life…"

He was going to say more, but his voice trailed off, the words suddenly stuck in his throat. Who was he trying to fool? He had fooled the Black Organization into thinking that they had successfully killed Akai Shuichi on Raiha Pass. He figured out the real names of Vermouth, Kir, and Bourbon. But that wasn't enough. Six months had passed, but he wasn't much closer to solving this case than he had been when he first started his investigation, or at least not as close as he would like.

Though Professor Agasa had reminded him to be patient. In a case like this, patience and strategic planning would be major factors in staying alive. And he was always hiding. Always trying to stay away from the attention he once craved, the recognition he had missed. All because of the one mistake that preceded the rest of them.

But… no, he _hadn't_ let this control his life, did he? He would still be on high-alert for anything related to _Them_ , and he had the professor's gadgets to help make up for any disadvantage. The fact that he had progressed further in six months than the FBI had in years was easy to look over. And then there were the Detective Boys, who had slowly become his apprentices, who wouldn't have been a part of his life had he never shrunk.

He lowered his hands, letting the bow tie rest on his neck once more.

So even if he had accepted that he couldn't change the past, there was still the guilt that followed him regardless. A grimy feeling that just simply couldn't be washed away with any soap.

All he could do was move forward.

With another sigh, he looked around the bathroom once more before exiting, his socked feet padding on the tiled floor.

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 **A/N: So this is my first completed DC fanfiction, and I'm currently working on some others (but as to whether they will actually be completed is another matter). This is also my first submission for a Poirot Café writing contest, so I'm pretty pleased that I was able to write something for it (^_^). For those of you waiting for an update on one of my other works, my profile has been updated with an explanation of what is going on with that (well, the notice was put up in December, but it still applies). Thank you for reading, and please leave a review (^_^)/**


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